


Metanoia

by tempus_teapot (dreadnot)



Series: Volutions [10]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, few things better than being done up against a door, volutions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-29 13:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadnot/pseuds/tempus_teapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We have to talk about Anders." </p><p>After his meltdown with Ser Alrik and losing it completely in the Vinmarks, it's time to do something about the Anders Situation. If that something includes an ocean voyage, sunken treasure, old companions, a tramp through the Frostbacks, and the usual Volutions messing about, then so be it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my NaNoWriMo project, which means I already have it outlined from start to finish, and that there should be steady updates throughout the month until it's done. Fingers crossed...

“We have to talk about Anders.” Hawke was unusually solemn, which silenced the usual smartass banter from his friends. 

Fenris scanned the faces of the people who had crowded into Merrill’s little alienage home. All of Hawke’s closest companions were there save Sebastian and Anders. Anders for obvious reasons, and Sebastian because Hawke and Fenris had agreed that Sebastian’s recommendation was a foregone conclusion that neither of them would support. 

Fenris was self-aware enough to recognize the irony of that fact, but he was just too accustomed to having that pain in the ass mage in his life, and handing him over to the templars would be signing his death warrant. 

Merrill perched at the edge of her chair as though she’d launch herself from it at any moment to once again offer water to everyone who had so far declined her earlier offers. Varric lounged comfortably in her other chair, smiling benignly at his friends, but there was a pucker between his brows that spoke of bubbling concerns under his placid surface.

Aveline had refused a seat and stood by the door with her arms folded over her breastplate, her expression turning foreboding at the mention of Anders.

Hawke planted himself in the archway that led into Merrill’s bedroom with his arms folded and his face grim. Isabela poked her head out from behind him and shook her head. “I’m never going to get over the way that mirror doesn’t reflect anything.” 

“Isabela…” Hawke swiped a hand over his face, looking all too tired in that moment. “Please, just sit down and let’s get this over with.” 

She didn’t apologize or even look particularly chastened, but she trailed a hand over his shoulder on her way by to nudge Merrill into scooting over in her seat. She didn't wait long before she crowded in beside her with an arm draped over her shoulders. 

Once she was settled, she cocked her head at Hawke and raised her eyebrows, the words, _“Go on,”_ unspoken, but loud nonetheless. 

Hawke looked to Fenris where he leaned against the wall opposite him and waited for his slight nod before he started speaking, “We all know about what happened a few weeks ago when we went to see about this ‘Tranquil Solution’ Anders was so certain was coming.” 

“He lost control,” Aveline said crisply. “If you hadn’t talked him down, he would have killed that girl, and we all know it. _He_ knows it.” 

Varric nodded and that pucker between his brows turned into a deep furrow. “He was a wreck afterwards, and things are getting worse, not better. I’m gonna come out and say it: he’s not the Anders we met back before the Deep Roads Expedition.” 

“He used to smile more, which is funny, if you think about it,” Merrill said almost apologetically. “I just mean that we’ve all seen how he is with you, Fenris – happy, I mean – and even that…” 

Fenris filled in the end of the sentence: _even that isn’t enough._ How he hated it when the witch was right. 

He kept a rein on his tongue and felt the muscle in his jaw jump as he bit back anything he might have said. They were there to agree to a course of action, not to fight, he reminded himself, but Maker, he wanted something to fight. 

“He’s gotten worse,” Hawke said to fill the space Merrill had left. “On this last trip to the Vinmarks to deal with those cartel assassins, we ran into some things we hadn’t expected.” 

“You can say that again,” Varric muttered. “I write some damn fine fiction if I say so myself and there’s no way I would have dreamed that shit up.” 

“Can you just get to the point for those of us who had business that kept us in Kirkwall?” Aveline said sharply. “What I’m getting from all this is that Anders lost it again and lost it worse than last time. Who did he kill?”

Hawke looked to Fenris, and when Fenris refused to speak for him, he said, “No one, but it was a near thing.” 

“Justice took over,” Varric said quietly. 

“That wasn’t Justice!” Everyone’s eyes were on Fenris, and he felt the weight of expectation there that gave him an unwelcome pang for what Hawke must feel when everyone always looked to him in that way. Tell us. Lead us. _Fix this._

He pushed away from the wall and addressed Hawke as though only his opinion mattered. “I have seen Justice when he was among people he’d known before Kirkwall. He would never have summoned shades to attack his friends.” 

Aveline’s startled, _“No!”_ all but drowned out Merrill’s gasp of, _“Why?”_

“That wasn’t Justice,” Fenris repeated. “That was that magister, Corypheus, calling him the way he called the other wardens.” 

“Where does a magister figure into this?” Aveline asked, and nothing would do but for the whole story to be told – Malcolm Hawke, the blood, the wardens twisted by a sleeping darkspawn’s dreams, Corypheus, the taint, the Calling, and ultimately circling back to Anders. 

“It was Justice, Fenris,” Varric said gently. “We’ve seen the glowing blue act before. They’re changing and it isn’t a good change.” 

“Remember what Valentia said in the Gallows,” Isabela said, her voice low. “Something about innocents and vengeance.” 

“Innocents will seek justice when all we have to offer is vengeance,” Fenris said dully. “She told me the city will consume us both if I allow him to stay.” 

He snorted and felt his face twist as though he’d tasted something bitter. “As though I can allow him anything. It took three of us to subdue him when he rose against us.” 

“Look on the bright side, your boyfriend’s no pushover,” Hawke said with his customary level of tact. 

“He is not––” 

Aveline interrupted, sounding utterly _done_ with the conversation. “Oh shut it, already.”

He shut his mouth. 

“I’m guessing that since Sebastian’s not here, giving him to the templars is off the table,” she said, looking between Fenris and Hawke, both of whom wisely kept their mouths shut and simply nodded when her eyes landed on them. 

“We’re all in agreement that he’s unstable and we have Isabela’s mother––” 

Isabela opened her mouth, likely to protest that Valentia wasn’t her mother, but Aveline jabbed a finger at her hard enough that Fenris wouldn’t have been surprised if Isabela ended up with a bruise from ten feet across the room. “How many times do I have to say shut it? Be quiet or I’ll stuff my scarf down your throat and you and Hawke can call it a good start on the evening.” 

Isabela glowered at her, but she also subsided in her seat and kept her mouth shut, which earned a curt nod from Aveline, who went on, “We have Isabela’s mother saying that bad things will happen if Fenris doesn’t get Anders out of the city.

“And you–” She turned that jabbing finger on Fenris. “--say he improves when he’s out of Kirkwall and around his old warden companions.” 

He nodded again, reluctantly. 

“Why is there a question, then? Get him out of Kirkwall. Take him back to Amaranthine where they can help keep Justice in line.” 

It sounded easier than it felt. He would have to drag Anders away from his clinic and his commitment to the mages in the Kirkwall Circle, he would have to leave behind his support system, his friends, the fragile life he’d crafted for the first time, and why? To drag Anders back to the wardens he had run from? To protect another mage? 

He shook his head and found himself suddenly in motion, pushing past Aveline while questioning voices rose behind him until he slammed Merrill’s front door closed and found himself outside in the shade of the vhenadahl. He heard the door open behind him and shrugged off the hand that fell on his shoulder. Call it a sign of progress that he didn’t give in to his urge to draw his blade or call on the lyrium’s power, even though it could have been any of five people – though probably not Varric – touching him. 

“Fenris?” 

Hawke, then. 

He shook his head and didn’t turn to look at his friend. “I cannot do this.” 

He heard the door open again behind them, but after a moment’s pause it closed again and Hawke moved forward to stand beside him, following Fenris’ gaze to regard the vhenadahl rather than make eye contact. “What? Talk about Anders or leave with him?” 

“Leave with him.” Fenris appreciated the ability to speak without Hawke’s scrutiny. They were subject to curious glances from the alienage’s elves, but only enough to identify two of the most dangerous men in Kirkwall and quickly pass on by. “I can’t go back to my life being only that of a bodyguard.” 

“What would you do if he left without you?” 

He tried to imagine his life without Anders in it. Neither of them had said I love you. Not those three words in that order, but did they really need to? He’d asked Anders if he loved him, and Anders had said yes. In turn, he’d thought long and hard on what his own answer to that question would be. 

“I can’t.” 

“Can’t what?” 

He wanted to hit something. Someone. He wanted to take his anger and pour it out on someone who deserved it, but all he had was Hawke, and he let the torrent go despite knowing it would wash away a bit of the self he’d been building. 

Fenris turned his head to look at Hawke’s profile and nearly snarled his answer. “I can’t let him go without me, is that what you want to hear? I can’t imagine living without that blighted abomination! If he leaves Kirkwall, I’ll go with him.” 

Sometimes Hawke said so many stupid things that Fenris could almost forget that there was a kind intellect hiding behind the jokes and goofiness. His gentle tone served as a reminder that cut Fenris’ anger out from under him. “This isn’t like it was before you came to Kirkwall; there’s nothing to say you have to cut ties if you go with him.” 

In the face of Fenris’ open-mouthed surprise, he grinned and shrugged, “I wouldn’t want to leave me behind, either.” 

“But would you leave everything and follow Isabela out of Kirkwall if she had to leave?” 

Hawke huffed through his nose, his grin turning lopsided, but never quite going away. “Maybe we’re not the best example.” 

Fenris gave a soft laugh. No, perhaps not. 

He might not be happier for the talk, but Hawke had helped him clarify his thoughts, if nothing else. He nodded to his friend and turned back to face Merrill’s door with a sinking sense that said he was preparing to go into a fight that had no winners. 

“You’re ready?” Hawke asked. 

He nodded and made himself open the door and step inside. Aveline let him in and even reached out to touch his arm as he passed her, offering her forgiveness for his push past her on the way out the door. 

He let his gaze drift from one face to another, from Aveline’s softened stare, to Merrill’s eyes shining with tears he didn’t want her shedding for him, to Varric’s wry nod, and Isabela’s wary head shake. He heard the door close behind him as Hawke came back inside, but no one’s attention wavered from Fenris; everyone was waiting for him to speak, not Hawke. 

“I’ll talk to him.” Four words, and the tension palpably broke. His friends were smiling and all he felt was cold. No more Wicked Grace night, no more running around the Wounded Coast watching Hawke collect useless detritus, no more knowing that if something went wrong, he had all these strong, _good_ people who would have his back. It was cold comfort to know they would all be but a letter away. 

And speaking of letters… “Varric, can you draft a letter to send to the Warden-Commander in Amaranthine?” 

Varric nodded. “Anything specific you want me to tell him?” 

“I don’t care what you say, talk to Hawke about it.” 

He drew in a deep breath and let it out. “You handle that and I’ll get Anders to agree to leave Kirkwall.”


	2. Chapter 2

More and more, Anders found there was nothing he could do that would give him a minute’s peace. In the year and a half since he and Fenris had returned from Amaranthine, Kirkwall had taken back the progress he and Justice had made in finding some sense of individuality. In recent months, weeks, and days, it seemed that the entity he’d known as Justice – his friend, his “better” half was losing itself to something darker. 

Between the incident under the Gallows – incident, what a nice, detached term that didn’t touch on the horror of the moment – and the fact that _Justice had tried to kill his friends,_ Anders was in a dark place where the simmering anger he’d brought into his joining with Justice had heated to a boil that had to spill over soon.

Since returning to Kirkwall, he had gone directly to his clinic, lit the lamp, and tried to lose himself in _helping_ people. This had been his retreat, his sanctum, the one place where he knew who he was and what that meant, but even here, treating another too pale, too thin Fereldan refugee who still suffered _years after the Blight had ended,_ his hands were one uncontrolled thought away from trembling with rage. 

He worked to block out memory. He drained himself, physically and magically, seeking to forget the confrontation with Corypheus and revelations that shook his faith in _not_ having faith. He’d seen the Chant as a tool of oppression and rejected it, and now? 

“Add these herbs to hot water, just enough to fill your palm like this––” He held out his cupped hand palm up and indicated the hollow in the center of his palm. “––and drink it every night before sleep until the herbs are all gone.” 

And now he was sending this woman off with herbs that would do nothing but mask the pain from the disease that his magic couldn’t touch. The disease that she wouldn’t have if she weren’t forced to sleep in the Lowerdark every night and breathe air that was just as likely to be chokedamp as actual air at any given time. 

Even if the Chant were real, those hypocrites in the Chantry were too busy channeling their resources to the confinement and oppression of mages to use their power to truly be tools for good. 

His thoughts circled like this, chewing on themselves, chewing at his mind. 

His next patient was a very confused elf with his face painted red from a scalp wound who kept repeating, “Did I fall?” 

“Looks like you fell onto someone’s cosh,” Anders said, not unkindly as he seated the man on a cot. He wiped away the blood and tried to get a look at the wound that had addled the man’s wits and ruined his tunic. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

He’d wash the blood away, use what little healing magic he had left in him, and maybe then he’d be able to douse the light for a few hours and sleep without wanting to scream at his mind to _shut up!_

He turned to fetch cleaning supplies and came face to face with Fenris, who held a basin of water and the last of his clean rags. “He looks messy.” 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed some of his self-directed anger and forced a smile. “I thought you were going to get some rest.” 

When had Fenris come in? He was doing a shitty job of watching his own back if he hadn’t seen a lyrium-painted elf with a giant sword come through his door.

“I didn’t think you were,” Fenris said, offering him the basin. “You need this?” 

“Yes.” 

He took the basin and turned back to his patient, who asked again, “Did I fall?” 

“Yes,” he said tiredly. “You fell. Now sit there like a good fellow while we make you look less like a murder victim.” 

The cleanup had to come before the magic; he didn’t think he’d have any energy left to do it afterwards. 

Fenris wordlessly followed him and offered him a rag once he’d set the basin down and warmed the water with a tiny bit of magic. He stayed by Anders’ side. While Anders worked, Fenris soaked another rag and offered it to him when the first was too bloody to be useful. While Anders used the second rag, Fenris rinsed the first in the basin and had it ready when Anders needed it again. 

It was seamless and unobtrusive and Anders didn’t feel worthy. How many days and nights had Fenris watched him here? How many times had he seen this played out between Anders and his assistants to the point that he knew what help to offer without being asked? 

A better question was why was Fenris here after what had happened? If anyone wasn’t going to forgive him for going full abomination, however briefly, it was Fenris, with his deep-seated distrust for mages. 

If Anders was being brutally honest, and he was working on that today, Fenris came by that distrust honestly. Even before his lover summoned demons to try to kill him and their friends. 

He chewed on his thoughts while they worked together to clean away most of the blood staining the elf’s skin. 

“Right then,” he said, once they’d done as much as was going to be possible without a change of clothes for the addled elf. 

“Did I fall?” 

Anders sighed and raised a hand to give him a focal point as he directed magic to do not just the simple work of closing his head wound and knitting skin back together, but the far more delicate and draining task of healing the bruising that came from having someone attempt percussive maintenance on his skull. A cut? Easy. A concussion after a day of throwing magic at everything to come through the door? If he hadn’t been on his knees when he’d started, he would have been there by the time he finished. 

He settled back on his heels, breathing through the tunnel vision until the light came back to the world and he was sure he wasn’t going to just pass out. 

Passing out would have been okay, just then. 

His patient lurched to his feet. “That bastard, Halward! I won that diamondback hand fair and square!” 

He touched his head, looked down at Anders, and had enough presence of mind to look guilty now. “I’m sorry. I can’t pay you tonight, but I’ll make it right.” 

Anders waved a hand but didn’t even try to get up. The floor was good. The floor was his friend. He might just slump over and make out with the floor, and now he knew he was getting punchy, because that sounded like an Oghren-ism. 

“I know you will,” he said. All he wanted was for this elf and _that_ elf to get out of here and let him pass out. “Go home, don’t gamble with sore losers.” 

Fenris rose from where he’d been kneeling by the cot and took the now coherent elf by the arm. “Come back tomorrow, bring the healer breakfast.” 

“I will.” Their patient seemed to finally notice Fenris’ markings and armor and let Fenris usher him out the door without complaint, though he paused in the door to call his thanks to Anders one last time before he was out of sight. 

Fenris was gone just long enough for Anders to assume he’d extinguished the lantern. When he returned, he pulled the door closed and dropped the bar to leave the two of them locked inside together. 

“Can you stand?” 

“Yes.” Anders knew he sounded peevish, but he was too tired for much else, and as much as he usually found comfort in sleeping with Fenris, he didn’t want him there. 

_“Will_ you stand?” 

“I’m not going to Hawke’s tonight.” 

“I thought as much.” Fenris approached him slowly and held out a hand to him. “We can talk here.” 

Anders eyed his hand without taking it. “Talk about what? Is this where you tell me that you can’t be with me?” 

Fenris kept his hand out. “This is where I tell you that I want to help you.” 

It was a trick, a trap. Fenris probably meant to help him right into the Gallows––

Was that his thought? Was it Justice? Maker, he was too tired to keep any of it straight anymore. 

He took Fenris’ hand and let him haul him up off the floor. 

“You don’t mean helping me stand up or wash patient’s faces.” 

Fenris put a hand on his elbow to guide him toward the back and his bedroom. “No. I want to help you leave Kirkwall before it destroys you.” 

Anders jerked away from the touch on his arm and put a hand out to brace himself on a support pillar before he stumbled. “I’m not leaving!” 

Fenris let him pull away, but he made no effort to pretend he was pleased with Anders. “This city is poison for you. I’ve seen you in Ferelden and you aren’t the same.” 

“This city needs me!” He welcomed the swell of anger that pushed back his fatigue. He straightened and dropped his hand from the pillar. “Look around you. What do you see?” 

“I see the same poverty and need that you can find in any city in Thedas,” Fenris said. “You could find the same wounded gamblers in Amaranthine or Seheron or even Starkhaven.” 

“What of the Circle?” Anders jabbed a finger in the general direction of the Gallows. “Nowhere in Thedas are mages treated as poorly as they are in Kirkwall. Do you know how many mages the mage underground has helped here? Of course you don’t, because you don’t want to know!” 

Fenris’ lips thinned. “No, I do not want to know, but does your mage underground want to know what you might do the first time one of them sees you lose control and thinks you are a demon? Or when one of your refugees starts talking about how the templars are doing the right thing? What good will you do for anyone then? Will they survive it?” 

Anders recoiled. Fenris was only voicing the same fears that he had, but hearing them spoken aloud, hearing those words from Fenris. Hearing them from someone he loved… He might have hurt less if Fenris had just used a knife instead of the truth. 

“You said it yourself,” Fenris went on, implacable in his certainty. “You can’t leave the wardens. It’s time to leave Kirkwall before this city destroys you.” 

No. 

_No!_

Maybe if he’d been less drained, maybe if he hadn’t stretched himself thin in the hopes of finding the dreamless sleep of exhaustion, maybe if Fenris hadn’t hit him in the core of his own self-doubt. 

Maybe he would have held on. 

He shook his head, feeling that outside fury rising, hearing the voice in his head telling him that Fenris had turned on him, that he’d been a fool to hope that someone like Fenris could ever love someone like him. He tried to fight back the tide, but it swept over him, pushing him under, opening cracks in his skin that bled blue fire and black smoke. He was drowning again, and one of these times, there’d be no Anders left, no Justice, only Vengeance.

Fenris stepped forward, caught his wrist, and the world lit with lyrium light. They sank to the floor, crying out together as the power from the cuffs raced through them both, driving all thought of rage or betrayal away in a moment of perfect pleasure. 

It didn’t _fix_ a thing, but it bought them a moment, brought Anders back into himself, and in the breathless aftermath, Fenris pulled him in close and whispered, like a secret shared just between them, “We have to leave Kirkwall.” 

We. 

Anders made a sound, the bastard child of a laugh and a sob. He’d just won Fenris’ argument for him. He let Fenris hold him while his eyes wandered his clinic, cataloguing memories even as he was beginning his goodbyes. He only wished he weren’t so good at those.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of callbacks to prior Volutions stories in this chapter, mostly Grotesquerie and Latibule. I was chagrined when actual canon information on Isabela's mother came out after I'd written Latibule, but there's nothing to be done about it this late in the series. It's a good thing this is AU.

Varric drafted a letter and put it into the hands of a distant Glavonak cousin who promised that it would be in the Warden-Commander’s hands within a fortnight. That left Anders and Fenris and all his friends with a fortnight to plan and an eternity after that in which to fret. 

The answer, when it arrived, surprised neither Anders nor Fenris: _Warden Anders’ assignment in the Free Marches is complete. Return to Vigil’s Keep for further orders._

“You’d almost think the Warden-Commander was an insensitive bastard,” Anders said, crumpling his orders into a ball before he held out his open palm and sent the ball up in flames with a dismissive wave of his free hand. 

“Almost,” Fenris said because Anders seemed to expect some response. Almost, but he’d seen Widald Amell with his people, had seen him with his elven lover. _They_ trusted him. He didn’t think Dal was insensitive. He also didn’t trust the Warden-Commander of Ferelden much farther than he could throw him. Not after being used by him just to obtain The Architect’s blood for a phylactery. 

The man was a Grey Warden forged by the blight that he’d helped bring to an end. He could be trusted to think of the greater good, but the good of one or two individuals? Fenris had his doubts. 

“Anders?” 

He interrupted Anders’ clearly very important business of turning in circles to sadly survey his clinic and waited for Anders to look at him. “Did you notice that Corypheus and the Architect bore a certain resemblance to each other?” 

Anders rubbed his forehead and shook his head. “Maybe, but two emissaries look similar, two hurlocks, two genlocks. The Architect once told us that he’d been born as he was. Maybe he’s a throwback or a cosmic joke or maybe he bumped his head and forgot he was an ancient Tevinter magister who violated the Fade and turned the Golden City black.”

He turned a jar of herbs to make the label face outward, pulled another jar into line with the first, and dragged his fingertips over the shelf where they sat before he dropped his hand again. “I’ve already thrown away or given away everything that doesn’t fit in my pack. Go tell Hawke that we have our answer.” 

Another time, Fenris might have bristled at Anders casually telling him what to do. Today, he let it go. “All right.” 

He turned to go only to have Anders call out, “Fenris?” 

“Yes?” 

Whatever Anders might have been thinking to say, he visibly bit it back, looked down at his boots, and back up to Fenris to say, “Ask Jeska to come here. There are a few more things I want to show her before I turn the clinic over to her.”

…

Three days later they were on a small sailboat that took them farther out into the harbor where _The Lover’s Wake_ was moored. Fenris stood braced at the railing, Anders sat in the bow with his eyes fixed on the horizon, and Ser Pounce-a-lot sat on his lap and meowed from time to time to remind Anders that he was a real cat and not some stuffed toy to be squeezed and clung to just because Ander hated boats.

Fenris watched the dock they’d left behind, picking out his friends by their silhouettes – Varric short and broad; Aveline tall and straight; Sebastian held himself almost as straight, if not as tall; even Merrill had come to see them off, even if neither he nor Anders had ever seen her as a friend. Maybe she was bidding them good riddance rather than goodbye. 

If he wanted to see Hawke or Isabela, he had to turn away from saying his silent good-byes to the city where he’d made his first real steps in learning to be a free man. They waited on Isabela’s ship to receive their two passengers and the last of Athenril’s cargo that was financing this little jaunt. 

“You helped me get my baby,” Isabela had said. “Captain Isabela will get you where you’re going.” 

When he dragged his eyes off of Kirkwall, he could pick Isabela out against the ship’s railing by the hat she wore. Merrill had given it to her not long after she’d made it back to Kirkwall with _The Lover’s Wake._ Fenris had thought that the milliner should be thrown in the harbor, but Isabela had crowed with delight, clapped the hat on her head and danced Merrill around the Hanged Man. 

She was there to toss the rope ladder down to them when the sailboat came alongside her ship, and Hawke gave Anders a hand up when he clambered up with Ser Pounce-a-lot poking his head out of the top of his pack. 

Fenris passed up several sacks of goods he wasn’t supposed to question before he collected his pack, thanked Athenril’s sailor, and climbed the rope ladder to join Anders, Hawke, and Isabela on the deck while her crew got to work stowing their cargo and preparing to set sail. 

Anders let Ser Pounce-a-lot out of his pack and the cat immediately started to wander the deck, poking his nose into coils of rope and behind secured barrels. Isabela’s crew gave him curious looks, but Isabela called an order to leave the cat be and that was that. 

Fenris still kept half an eye on the cat’s progress. He knew that Ser Pounce-a-lot wasn’t your average cat, but if that cat drowned, he thought Anders might throw himself into the ocean. 

“There’s a cabin ready for you,” Hawke told them while Isabela busied herself issuing orders. “Ser Pounce-a-lot can stay with you. Isabela says he’s welcome to hunt in the hold.”

Anders turned in a circle and passed his hand through empty air and looked at his palm as though expecting to find something there. “It’s not much like it was when we first found it, is it? No dust in the air, and I’m hoping no traps, either.” 

“No traps,” Hawke promised him. “I stepped on the last one just this morning.” He briefly mimed hopping on one foot. 

“Good to know,” Fenris said dryly. “I’ve seen how well you and Isabela handle traps. Perhaps I should borrow Anders’ staff to test the floor.” 

Hawke opened his mouth to protest until he caught Fenris’ sly grin and instead made a rude gesture as he laughed. “Let’s get your gear stowed and we’ll see what chores the captain has for us.” 

“The captain has something for you to do later, sweetling,” Isabela called as she directed her sailors in raising the sails. “But I can’t say what in front of the crew. Innocent ears, you know.” 

Several sailors hooted and jeered, Isabela laughed, and Hawke threw her a mocking salute. 

Anders grabbed his pack, called to Ser Pounce-a-lot, and followed Hawke, with his cat close on his heels and Fenris following behind. 

The stairs belowdecks brought back memories of their first time on _The Lover’s Wake_ with Hawke and Isabela and Isabela’s mother, Valentia. Varric loved telling the story, embellishing until there were dancing skeletons posing riddles before they could get to the treasure that the Rivaini seer had danced away across the waves with. 

Even when Fenris knew the real story, Varric could spin such a good story that the people who had been there could find themselves questioning their memories. He was going to miss that man. 

Hawke got them to their cabin without anyone stepping in a trap and left them there while he went topside to help Isabela and the crew. 

Their cabin would be comfortable enough for the trip. The bunk was barely larger than the one he and Anders had shared on _The Silverite Maiden_ , but he and Anders had come a long way in sharing personal space since those days. 

He smiled a little and nudged Anders. “At least you’re wearing trousers this trip,” he said in a low voice. “In case any other sea monsters want to make friends.” 

Anders snorted, and Fenris caught the barest start of a smile while he dropped his pack and knelt to rummage a small packet out of one of its pockets. It was a start, right? 

Anders flicked the packet lightly when Fenris gave him a questioning look. _“Remei._ Valentia’s recipe. I have enough for the whole voyage.”

He set to work digging a small tin cup out of his pack to mix the _remei_ with water from his waterskin. He knocked it back in one draught and heaved a deep sigh. “She might have been a manipulative bitch and I blame her for our being here now, but this stuff almost makes up for it.” 

Fenris had to admit that he was grateful that Valentia had given Anders a remedy for his violent seasickness that actually worked, but he didn’t have to like her just for that. “She isn’t the only reason we’re here.” 

“I know.” He tucked the cup back into his pack and tied the waterskin back in place and stood up. For the first time in days, he and Fenris were alone, not counting Ser Pounce-a-lot, which they generally did since the misadventure with the desire demon’s statuette. 

Both of them knew more about Ser Pounce-a-lot’s inner monologue than they ever wanted to. 

Still, Fenris closed the distance between them and Anders stepped into his arms for a kiss that carried more than a hint of desperation, as though he was seeking confirmation that they were in the right place and doing the right thing. Fenris cradled the back of his head and met his desperation with a fierceness that hid his own need for reassurance. 

He’d made this choice because the alternative might someday be seeing this mad mage die at Fenris’ hand to protect him from himself. 

He drove the kiss hard, holding Anders head in place as he cupped his cheek and used teeth and tongue and the faint scratch of his gauntlet tips on Anders’ scalp and pricking against his cheekbone to pull Anders into his body and push Justice aside. This was their time, and the spirit could go hide wherever it was he hid when things became too physical for his comfort. 

He might have just pushed Anders back into that bunk and driven Justice deeper into hiding if a whistle at his back hadn’t made him whip his head around with a snarl already starting, only to freeze when he saw Hawke and Isabela watching them from the doorway. 

“Isabela,” Hawke cautioned, “you might not want to surprise them when they’re occupied. Anders gets a little…” 

“I can see what Anders is getting,” she said, grinning. “We’ll be leaving the harbor in a few minutes. Hawke thought you might want to get a last look at the city before we shake its dust off our boots.” 

Anders groaned and released Fenris, taking a step back. “Right. Thank you.” For nothing, his tone said. 

Fenris let him go, wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand and headed for the door with Anders close behind him. 

“Later, the crew would love it if you two wanted to show them your wedding dance.” 

_“No,”_ they said in unison.

…

Hawke and Isabela left them when they got up on deck. Anders and Fenris stood together at the railing, watching the city’s details blur and disappear the farther the ship traveled. No more Chantry, no more Viscount’s Keep. He watched Anders stare at the Gallows as they sailed past it and maybe he only imagined the flicker of blue light in his lover’s eyes as they locked on the looming walls until they could see it no more.

When they passed out of the channel and left the giant bronze Twins of Kirkwall behind, Fenris took a deep breath and released it. He might come back here some day, either to live or just to visit, but for now, it was goodbye. 

“Goodbye,” Anders said softly, reflecting Fenris’ unspoken thought. His expression was so profoundly sad that despite Fenris’ usual reticence, he put an arm around his waist and stayed there with him until all they could see behind them was water.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shameless porn. You won't miss much plot if you want to skip ove

No matter Valentia’s faults, Anders would forever bless her for introducing him to _remei_. Unlike his last trip to Amaranthine, he didn’t have to spend the majority of his waking hours either ill or waiting to be ill. 

It gave him time to appreciate the way the weight of Kirkwall’s very existence slowly lifted from his shoulders. He couldn’t say he wasn’t still troubled, couldn’t pretend that Justice wasn’t, in his way, profoundly ill, but there were times when he found himself smiling or allowed himself to joke with Hawke or with Isabela. There were moments when he and Fenris curled close in the small bunk that they shared that he thought that there might be a chance that he might eventually find a way to balance what he’d become with who he wanted to be. 

He kept himself busy as best he could. As always, he took time to get to know the crew, to offer aid where he could. He had a gift for healing, and using it to mend a poorly healed break or relieve the arthritis that was threatening to end the bosun’s days at sea brought him some measure of peace. Magic was to serve man after all. 

His crisis of faith – with finding that he might have some faith – remained, but that was going to take more than a trip out of Kirkwall to resolve, if he ever could. If he couldn’t, he would hardly be alone in doubt, although how many doubters could say they’d met one of the magisters who’d blackened the Golden City? 

All in all, though, Anders’ mood was less bleak than it had been when they’d left Kirkwall. Sitting in the launch that carried them from _The Lover’s Wake_ to Amaranthine’s docks, he raised his voice to be heard over the slap of water against the hull and the splash of the oars, “We’ll stay at the Crown and Lion tonight. Fenris and I stayed there the last time we were here. He can tell you it’s better than the Hanged Man.” 

“Anywhere’s better than the Hanged Man,” Hawke said, one arm slung over Brutal’s back as his mabari stood at his side with his mouth dropped open in a doggie grin that said he might be even happier than Anders to get to dry land. _The Lover’s Wake_ was a good-sized ship, but not by mabari standards. If the dog waited two minutes to find something to piss on, Anders would eat Isabela’s hat. 

“Hey!” Isabela took off her hat and swatted Hawke with it. “You know I like the Hanged Man.” 

“Why else would you live there when Hawke has a perfectly good estate?” Fenris said, apparently just for the pleasure of seeing both Hawke and Isabela stammer and shake their heads. 

“No, no, it’s––”

“I like my space. I couldn’t. Too far from the water.” 

“––fine. It’s fine. This works for us.” 

Fenris chuckled and Anders smiled despite his melancholy thought that he would miss both Hawke and Isabela and their mutual terror of the word commitment. They were committed… as long as neither of them came out and said they were. 

The moment the launch hit the dock, Brutal scrambled over Hawke and up onto the dock to trot away and set about asserting his dominance over anything that didn’t get out of the way of his raised leg… and one dock worker who was too afraid of the war dog to raise much fuss. 

Ser Pounce-a-lot let Anders carry him to dry land before he jumped down and preceded the group through the city gates. 

“Why is there a pitchfork in that tree?” Hawke asked as they followed Ser Pounce-a-lot to the Crown and Lion’s front door. 

“A question for the ages,” Anders said as he opened the door and ushered them inside.

…

Three hours and several hands of diamondback later, heavier with ale and lighter of coin, Hawke and Isabela retired to the room where Kristoff had once stayed, while Brutal sprawled outside their door with all the self-assurance of a mabari in a country full of people who knew just what an angry mabari could do to them; he looked downright smug.

Anders and Fenris once again settled in the back room where they had stayed the last time they were in Amaranthine. Anders waited restlessly through the delivery of bucket after bucket of water to the bathtub while Fenris sat in front of the fire and cleaned his sword. 

“We haven’t been in any fights since we left Kirkwall,” Anders said, caught between pacing to see when the servants would be back with more water and coddling Ser Pounce-a-lot, who had taken his place in the center of the bed and seemed unlikely to budge of his own volition. “Why are you cleaning your sword?” 

Fenris didn’t look up from running his whetstone down the blade. “Salt in the air can corrode the metal with time. This sword has kept us both alive more than once, it deserves at least this much care and respect.” 

Right. Grand. Fenris was fondling his sword. That wasn’t exactly what Anders had in mind.

He fidgeted until the tub was full and he’d closed and locked the door. “Remember the last time we were here?” 

“I am unlikely to ever forget,” Fenris said dryly. “I assume you have a point.” 

Anders eyed Ser Pounce-a-lot, looked speculatively at the tub, and started untying the cords that held back the drapes around the bed. “The last time we were here, we didn’t like each other enough to share a bath.” 

Fenris sounded casual, but Anders noted that he also put down his whetstone and started wiping oil off his blade. “And?” 

“And I think we like each other a bit better this time around, and it’s been a long time since we had access to a tub this big.” He pulled the curtains closed around the bed.. 

Fenris glanced back at him, noted the closed curtains, and cocked his head. “Anders?” 

“Ser Pounce-a-lot’s in there.” Behind the curtains. Not watching them. Did he have to spell it out? 

Ser Pounce-a-lot meowed just once from behind the closed curtain, then was silent. 

“So he is.” Fenris gave his sword a last swipe, set the rag aside, and slid his sword into its sheath. “It seems we should take advantage of the tub while we have the chance.”

…

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling like I’m staying in the ghost of the Crown and Lion and not a real place.”

Fenris cupped water in his palm and dribbled it down Anders’ chest, giving only a noncommittal grunt in response, a low sound that vibrated against Anders’ back where he lay cradled against Fenris in the tub. 

“Maybe it’s because I don’t get to come back to places very often, if you don’t count the Circle at Lake Calenhad.” More likely it was because he had seen the arrows raining down on the city, setting Amaranthine ablaze, but that wasn’t a thought to be indulged when they were naked and wet and Anders had other indulgences in mind to drown out his looming fears. 

“I’ve been here with Dal and the other wardens before Amaranthine fell, I’ve been here with you…” Kristoff had stayed here, and a little bit of Kristoff had come to him with Justice. “And now we’re here again.” 

“And tomorrow we’ll go to the Vigil,” Fenris murmured. 

He handed Anders a lump of soap. “Tonight I have a few things I’d like to do that we didn’t do last time.” 

“Other than take a bath together?” Anders craned his neck to see Fenris’ expression and was rewarded with a hint of a smile. 

“Other than take a bath together.” He closed his hands over Ander’s hands and helped him rub the apparently forgotten soap between them. “As long as that voyeur cat of yours stays on the other side of the curtains.” 

Anders pitched his voice a little louder to ensure Ser Pounce-a-lot knew what he said was meant for him: “If he doesn’t, he can go sleep with Brutal.” 

No meow from behind the curtains. Anders was going to choose to take that as a good sign. 

“I have a few ideas of my own, you know.” He set the soap aside and slid lower before he rolled over onto his stomach to look up at Fenris. “If you don’t mind sitting on the edge of the tub for a bit. I never bothered to learn any spells for breathing underwater.” He glanced back to where his feet and shins poked out of the water. It was a big tub, but not big enough for him to fully stretch out between Fenris’ legs. “And I’d rather kneel anyway.” 

“Would you now?” Fenris’ smile sent a throb of lust through his body that made itself right at home in his groin. 

Another throb when Fenris pushed himself up onto the edge of the tub and spread his legs wider. “Maker, you’re amazing,” Anders said reverently as he rose up onto his knees and leaned forward to press a kiss to the inside of of Fenris’ thigh where no lyrium marked his skin. “I could do this all night.” 

He felt a twinge from Justice, who would rather Anders didn’t do this all night. Until Anders’ mouth hovered over a line of lyrium farther up Fenris’ thigh and turned his eyes up to meet Fenris’ gaze. Only once Fenris gave a tiny nod did he let his lips come down on that line, and briefly, Justice was right there with him, letting Anders hear the lyrium song as he traced that line with lips and tongue. 

Now that they knew to listen for it, they could hear the jangle of discord in the song, but Fenris still caught him by the ponytail and held him there for a moment longer before tugging him away to a patch of bare skin higher up his thigh. 

Someday they’d find a way to restore the song’s harmony, but tonight… tonight Anders came to the fore while Justice retreated from the experience. Anders could be mostly himself as he left a red suck mark on Fenris’ thigh before he was tugged higher where he could turn his head to lick drops of water off Fenris’ balls and watch his cock thicken and rise until he was pulled up to lick its length as well. 

This was an indulgence, taking his time, immersing himself in the clean taste of skin and the faintest hint of salt when he dipped the tip of his tongue into Fenris’ slit. Fenris’ fingers tightened in his hair and held him there to repeat that cheeky little exploration until light pressure on the back of his head urged him down. There was nothing he could do wrong here with the wordless guidance he was given – more, deeper, faster, slower, back and hold there with Fenris’ tip barely caught behind his lips. He could lose time there without fear, growing harder, groaning around Fenris’ cock when a thrust of his hips dragged water over his own erection like a teasing lover’s touch, moans muffled in those moments when he could open his throat and push past his body’s protestations to feel Fenris stiffen and grab at his shoulder when his lips closed tight at the base of his cock and his throat rippled and squeezed around its tip. 

He couldn’t stay long, but it was worth it for the wild look in Fenris’ eyes when he pulled back and the grip on his hair and arm that pulled him up as Fenris stood. “Get the salve.” Fenris stepped, dripping, out of the tub, cock standing out hard in front of himself. “Now, unless you want me coming somewhere other than inside you.” 

Anders hurried to his pack and dug into it to pull out the jar that put in frequent appearances in their sex life. He left the lid on top of his pack and turned to see Fenris standing directly behind him. Was there anything more beautiful than seeing Fenris with that expression of naked need on his face? Both of them naked while Fenris wore that expression? 

Fenris took the jar from him and pulled the curtain around the bed aside… 

To be confronted by a pair of glowing green eyes. _“Meow.”_

He dropped the curtain and looked around the room for an alternate place to finish what Anders had started. 

Anders almost laughed as he put a hand on Fenris chest – _oh, that lyrium song,_ there was always such a balance to strike in touching him – and pushed, gently but insistently, back until his back fetched up against the locked door. “Here. Now. If you please.” 

Fenris dug his fingers in the salve and dropped the jar to the floor with a thump. While he stroked the salve onto his cock, Anders leaned in and kissed him, moaning against his lips when what he really wanted to do was tell Fenris to hurry up and fuck him. 

“Say that again,” Fenris growled against Anders’ lips when he was satisfied with his use of the salve. 

“Which part?” Anders asked before he sucked lightly at Fenris’ lower lip. “Here?” A nip to Fenris’ upper lip. “Now?” He moved his mouth by Fenris’ ear and dragged his tongue up its rim until he was standing on his tiptoes to reach its tip. _“Please?”_

Fenris’ hands were on his hips, pushing, directing, turning him until his back fetched up against the door with a thump that rattled it on its hinges. “Again.” 

Anders put let his head fall back and raised one leg to hook his calf behind Fenris’ thigh. “Please, Fenris.” 

Strong hands caught him behind the thighs and lifted him easily and Anders was momentarily entranced by the ripple and flex of muscles in Fenris’ arms and shoulders even as he braced his shoulders against the door and wrapped both legs around Fenris’ waist. 

Fenris held him with one hand and guided himself with the other hand, sliding, salve-slick between Anders’ ass cheeks. _“Again.”_

Any other time that growl might have sounded like a threat, but Anders wasn’t afraid, he was simply ready. “Please. Please, please, _please_ fuck me.” 

His body knew Fenris; between his upward thrust and Anders’ measured relaxation of his grip around Fenris’ waist, the moment between _almost_ and _there_ was gone in a flash that had Anders’ breath leave him in a rush. 

The door rattled every time Fenris snapped his hips forward to drive into him. Circle-raised, Anders had circumspection drilled into him. Every time he moaned a little louder and arched his back to push his shoulders into the door and rattle it a little more loudly, it was a fuck you to all the hiding he’d been forced to do. He might be going back to the wardens, but he had this much as a free man. 

He was close to coming, could feel his balls drawing tight, could feel that sweet heat gathering at the base of his spine. He gasped out a warning between thrusts. “Gonna… soon…” 

Fenris’ eyes gleamed when he raised his head and snapped his hips even harder. Answer enough, there. 

Gonna… 

The door rattled behind his head when someone’s fist hit it. Once, twice, again. 

Anders startled, tightened around Fenris, tried to twist as though he’d be able to see through the door only to have Fenris pin him in place with a hand against his chest. “Don’t even think about it.” He kept driving into Anders, keeping a relentless pace that had sweat standing out on his brow and gleaming amid the lyrium on his chest. “They can wait.” 

The door vibrated with three more loud knocks.

“Fuck off!” Anders yelled, punctuated by a moan when Fenris reached between them to wrap fingers around his cock. 

The knocks came again.

“I said––” Fenris shifted his stance, spread precome over his cock with every stroke, and angled his hips in an effort to hit Anders’ prostate that came close enough often enough for Anders’ last word on the matter to be _“fuuuuuu–––”_ before he was coming, writhing, scrabbling at the door with one hand, Fenris’ shoulders with the other, doing his damnedest not to lose his hold on Fenris’ hips with his legs or on his magic. With that much to keep track of, who cared about whoever was knocking at the door? 

Fenris curled over him then and gave himself over to chasing his own pleasure. When it came, it was with a low growl and his teeth locked on Anders’ shoulder in a bite that earned an exhausted shudder and moan from Anders before they were both still and panting. 

Three more knocks.

“I swear I am going to fireball whoever that is,” Anders growled as Fenris pulled free, leaving him empty and shaky as he helped him lower his legs and stand. 

“Let me get my sword and I will take care of whatever’s left.” 

Instead, Anders threw on his coat and Fenris stood out of sight behind the door while Anders cautiously pulled the door open and immediately closed it again. 

“There’s a golem out there.”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating 4 April 2016. I apologize for the unexpected complete break in writing. My back and I haven't been on speaking terms for months, and I've been on heavy pain killers just to function at all. After everything from physical therapy to acupuncture to treatments involving steroids that cost far too much money for the amount of benefit I got from them, I'm scheduled for surgery at the end of the month. It has a high success rate and a recovery period of four to six weeks. So cross your fingers for me if you please, and I'll see you on the other side.


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